bungalow

Crowquill: Circle takes the Square

Nothing's so lucid as the promise of dreams, but these pills we found just make me sleep.
There's nothing quite so pure as the written word my dear, so lets have ourselves a little poem.
Until the will to speak loses urgency.
Our animal indecency in print is so blase.
Its about the bell tower, at the golden hour.
Angel of the spires climbs here steel cage staircase spine, angle of desire.
Ascend the wrought iron, one by one, wrung by wrung.
Is it the rising roof line that makes me feel so swallowed whole,
or the way my body barely pricks the sky,
the same as a century's worth of virgin's blood that's passed through my longing veins,
scheming to convince my aching mind that pleasure's got nothing on the miracle of need.
Nothing's so purile as meter and rhyme when you can't see the ground from that ledge and this perch is so far, far from the nest.
Gravity doesn't grant me the privilege of failure my bough never breaks
I don't stumble into anything
so I climb and I carve my initials in the bark with that feather I found but its all so contrived.
My genes didn't bless me with the foresight of a sage but I know how this will end, in apologies and ink on the page.
A slowly constructed crow quilled confession of my spirit to all of you,
black waterproof ink scars the board, so hot-pressed, pristine and pure.
A slowly constructed manifestation of "to tremble",
as base as a bridge in a song and less like the poem that I promised you.
Nothing's so lurid as haiku-detat on sidewalks in white outlined chalk,
all I've got is this ink smeared lines.
With our voices in harmony, the offering, of a crow quilled threnody.


Same Shade as Concrete: Circle Takes the Square

Rejoice, rejoice a noble birth, a prince is born.
Behold the birth of violence, beasts of fang and feather cry for our concrete rapture,
and if we beg to be put down, unto us the most inspired storm.
A princess ravaged by her prince behold; the birth of sex and distance, two frail corpses both were they, his eyes were the first to stray... every tree held fast the earth to sky.
Concrete replaces every branch and twig as they were frayed upon the birth of ambition. The heavens filled our gilded vessel with poison tears, before we drink, I propose a toast, a final prayer.
Here's to the watchers in the wood, here's to the last days, unto us a most inspired song.
Shaper, stop the music.
Halt the harp strings whose chords confuse our histories with textures.
With the disheartened chorus of a hymnal whose choir is the conviction of the starving, artless, tempted by the feast of proof that this body of work has worth.
Uncertain as the fingering of a chord torn prematurely from a piano's womb.
As we fill our precious lungs with concrete, that faithful shade, a shaper's song is stopped short- a dying breath a singing shore.
Then the only movement and the last remains of grace:
Pollen falling off the simple hinge joint leg upon the final breath of a dragonfly.
A cardinal, lost but headstrong in mid flight cries for our concrete rapture, wade...
in the water, wade. Let the flood swell, thank the storm for her tears.
The faithful say its beautiful, its god's will
but the fool knows what the prophets have seen, no salvation's impending.
The faithful say its beautiful, its god's will let the flood swell and the bodies that break we'll just float down the river. Stay tame, soft river, while we weigh our faith, stay sweet, run softly, sweet river, the fool who wades in doubt will float like concrete.
Come and fill your lungs. Come and fill your lungs.
There's so much hope buried underneath tragedy, its the same shade as concrete.
The faithful say its beautiful, its god's will, let the flood swell
on the loudspeaker sermons and a parish descending.
There's so much hope buried underneath tragedy, its the same shade as concrete.
Let the flood swell.



Just to show a few.
By the way, your lyrics proved nothing besides my point.